"Fear not, rude stranger," quoth the earl in scorn; 30 "Not thee I seek; my dogs chase nobler prey. Speak, thou hast seen (if wandering here since morn) A lonely horseman;--whither wends his way?" "Track'st thou his step in love or hate?"--"Why, so As hawk his quarry, or as man his foe." "Thou dost not serve his God," the heathen said; 31 And sullen turn'd to quench his thirst again, The fierce earl chafed, but longer not delay'd; For what he sought the earth itself made plain In the clear hoof-prints; to the hounds he show'd The clue, and, cheering as they track'd, he rode. But thrice, to guide his comrades from the maze, 32 Rings through the echoing wood his lusty horn. Now, o'er waste pastures where the wild bulls graze, Now labouring up slow-lengthening headlands borne, The steadfast hounds outstrip the horseman's flight, And on the hill's dim summit fade from sight. But scarcely fade, before, though faint and far, 33 Fierce wrathful yells the foe at bay reveal. On spurs the Saxon, till, like some pale star, Gleams on the hill a lance--a helm of steel. The brow is gain'd; a space of level land, Bare to the sun--a grove at either hand; And in the middle of the space a mound; 34 And on the mound a knight upon his barb. No need for herald there his tromp to sound!-- No need for diadem and ermine garb! Nature herself has crown'd that lion mien; And in the man the king of men is seen. Upon his helmet sits a snow-white dove, 35 Its plumage blending with the plumed crest. Below the mount, recoiling, circling, move The ban-dogs, awed by the majestic rest Of the great foe; and, yet with fangs that grin, And eyes that redden, raves the madding din. Still stands the steed; still, shining in the sun, 36 Sits on the steed the rider, statue-like: One stately hand upon his haunch, while one Lifts the tall lance, disdainful ev'n to strike; Calm from the roar obscene looks forth his gaze, Calm as the moon at which the watch-dog bays. The Saxon rein'd his war-horse on the brow 37 Of the broad hill; and if his inmost heart Ever confest to fear, fear touch'd it now;-- Not that chill pang which strife and death impart To meaner men, but such religious awe As from brave souls a foe admired can draw: Behind a quick and anxious glance he threw, 38 And pleased beheld spur midway up the hill His knights and squires: again his horn he blew, Then hush'd the hounds, and near'd the slope where still The might of Arthur rested, as in cloud Rests thunder; there his haughty crest he bow'd,